


Lost Treasures of Stansbury

by TwentyPicarats



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Implied Relationships, One Shot, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7078513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwentyPicarats/pseuds/TwentyPicarats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Content</p>
<p>After Randall's fall, Hershel must attempt to pick up his own pieces and move on with his life, but intrusive thoughts make that much more difficult than he anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Treasures of Stansbury

      He stared down into the dark abyss, his eyes wide and his hand still extended downwards, desperately trying to grip at something that was long gone. His entire body was locked in place, and his mind was overwhelmed with regret, remorse, and disbelief. He just lost his grip, and saw Randall fall. It hadn't fully sunk in yet, he'd shouted once initially, but his mind went completely blank shortly after. This never happened, right? He'd turn around and Randall would be laughing at him for being an idiot right?

      Slowly he turned, trying to see if his friend was behind him. His movements were jagged and unnatural, like he was a newly-starting robot that hadn't been oiled in several years. When he was met with nothingness, just that taunting door, his body began to tremble. Randall was really gone, he had really dropped him down a seemingly bottomless ravine, and for all he knew, Randall was still falling. His eyes welled up, and it his voice finally came, rendering him motionless with shrieking sobs. He cried out for his friend, screamed with each sob. By the end of his little episode, his throat felt hoarse, and could possibly been bleeding. His body gave out, and he curled in on himself, laying on his side and silently sobbing.

      How could he let this happen? Randall was supposed to be his best friend, and he didn't even save him. His life was literally in Hershel's hands and Hershel let him die. He murdered his best friend, in Hershel's eyes he practically threw him over the edge to his death. His whole world felt like it was dimming, dimming down to varying shades of grey. Randall was everything to him, and now, within a few moments, he was just gone.

      It felt like an eternity before he could move again, and when he finally worked his way up to the door, he noticed distinct flecks of orange on the door, that stood out with the endless seas of grey. The puzzle didn't seem to make sense to him. He hardly knew what he was doing, just blindly moving pieces into squares until at long last, the door clicked open. What was so important that Randall threw his life away?

      It took him a moment to even see it, the pile of treasure sank in with the grey consuming his world. He wasn't even able to distinguish it from anything else in the room. He approached slowly, each movement agonizing for him, picked up a coin from in front of the pile, and fell to his knees, hot tears stinging his eyes again. He hadn't even realized he had tears left to cry. This is what Randall had sacrificed his life for? Gold? Gems? Treasure? This is what he thought so valuable that he tossed away his future so young? He didn't want this, he wanted no part of this anymore.

           What was the point in anything?

      He stayed there motionlessly, hot tears speckling the cold stone beneath him. He just stared blankly at the coin he had dropped again. No amount of treasure could be worth Randall's life. No fortune could be worth his smile, no gold could be worth his laugh. He'd chuck it all down and bury these ruins again just to have him back. His hands tensed, trying to grip at the stone like it was clay, and felt his fingers catching on cracks and jagged spikes of stone, leaving numerous small cuts along his fingers and hands. It took him forever to pick up that coin and stand once again.

"Randall..."

      His voice was cracked and hoarse, like it's been days since he's used it.

"You gave your life for this."

      It was beginning to squeak again, as more hot tears began to well in his eyes. He couldn't even speak of it without surges of emotion overwhelming him.

"And what was it worth? Trinkets? Jewellery?"

      His face contorted as tears washed away what little composure he had left.

"The long lost treasure of the Azran... it should have been yours."

      His voice caught for a moment, only letting out a few small sobs, and his throat stinging with each word that followed.

"I want no part of it."

      When had he started walking again? When had he edged his way around the final chamber to leave this horrid place? He stepped over buried mummies, past failed boulder traps, stopping briefly at the boulder where he and Randall first got separated. He should have just found him again and begged to go home. But he didn't, and now Randall was gone. Randall was gone and it was his fault.

      Sunlight stung his eyes, being cast in only the light of a lantern for days on end. He looked out into the grey abyss of sands, and starts his way back up the cliff to walk home. He hadn't even taken his stuff with him from the cave's last chamber. He left it there. But he was clutching one item in his hands like it was the last thing on earth.

           Randall's spare glasses.

      When had he grabbed them? Randall didn't even need glasses, the frames were plastic. So why had he gotten them in the first place? He didn't even remember going into their bags at all. He didn't even think to grab water, or food, or supplies to get home. He just started walking, and there was a long journey home, one that would span the entirety of a night. But he wasn't tired. Everything felt too numb for him to be tired anymore.

      The dark turned to a muggy grey as the sun rose over the horizon. Why hadn't he gotten back to Stansbury by now? It had only taken them half a day to arrive to Akbadain. It hadn't even registered he had left their poor horse to die out in the desert. He merely kept trudging on, feeling like he didn't even have tears left to cry. The glasses were pocketed long ago, as was the single coin he took. There was no treasure worth his best friends life, so there was nothing to even say if he was asked. An empty chamber that took the remaining husk of a person Hershel was when it took his friends life. He was an empty shell wandering the desert, hoping the heat and humidity could take him before he ever returned to Stansbury.

      As the grey light was fading into its black darkness again, he saw the sign. He was home, he was back in Stansbury, and yet he still felt nothing. What did it matter? What did anything matter? He left with Randall, and returned alone, after he had so sworn to protect him. What were his vows as a gentleman worth now? Nothing. They were worth nothing in his eyes anymore.

      The sounds of rapidly approaching footsteps. He hadn't registered any voices. Every noise was a low, humming buzz. He stopped and glanced to the side, and the sting of contact gripped his shoulders. Was she yelling? Was she asking questions? He didn't know. He looked at her at long last, seeing the pleading desperation in her eyes. Of course she had noticed Randall was gone, Angela cared so deeply for him, as deeply as Hershel himself did. He couldn't find his voice, or the words to follow it. How do you tell someone you were single-handedly responsible for such an important persons death?

      Angela's eyes filled with fear, and she stumbled back, gripping at the sides of her head. He could see through her lips that she was screaming out, but he couldn't hear her words. All he could hear was that same, steady buzzing sound and the gentle breeze brushing past his ears. He had to tell her something, anything that his voice could come out with.

"Angela, Randall... he's gone..."

      His eyes shut, and he glanced away. He'd give desperately to have more tears to shed, to give any sort of emotion to his empty husk of a body. All he could do was listen to the wind, and the slowly tuning in sounds of sobbing. Was it Angela? He couldn't distinguish the voice. It must have been. He was slowly tuning back in, and suddenly, a crashing voice erupted from her

"You promised you'd protect him, Hershel!"

      He winced, looking away from her once again, he nods, knowing he broke his promise

"He died because you didn't! It's your fault Hershel!! You killed him!"

      She's desperately screaming out, tears rushing down her cheeks, she's approached him, shaking his shoulders firmly, tightly gripping at them.

"You took him from us! Why!? Why!?"

      Hershel couldn't bring himself to respond, and she backed away again, her head down and tears falling like waterfalls down her porcelain cheeks. He understood where she was coming from, he didn't blame her for blaming him. It was his fault, after all. She had every right to scream at him, to cry until she couldn't see. Everything she was doing, he'd be doing if he was in her position. She was showing all the emotion he couldn't, and he nearly envied her for it.

      Henry eventually took her in his arms, and started walking her home, passing a furious, hurt glare to Hershel on his way. The brunette stood there until they were both out of sight, and what felt like forever after that, before beginning to work his way back home. His feet stung, they must have for a while. It'd become part of his routine, he barely even noticed the pain any longer. He trudged his way through town, hearing the whispers from person to person like a megaphone in his ear.

           What happened? Where was the Ascot boy? Did they get into a fight? Are they okay? The Layton boy was always going to be trouble.

      All the questions the town had to ask, Hershel just couldn't provide answers for. He worked his way to the towns centre, and not long after arriving, hears more rushing footsteps, and a desperate voice screaming his name. It wasn't until two arms locked around him that he even registered it was his mother. Lucille... always so sweet, a complete worry-wart of a mother... but would she still even care about him after this?

"Ma..."

      His choked, dry voice whimpered out, and he hugged her back loosely. Roland joined their side soon after, a worried hand making its way to Hershel's arm. They both look terrified, Hershel looked horrible, covered in cuts, bruises, gashes, dirt, and tears. They started ushing him back home. They'd yell at him when he was better. They'd yell once they found out what had him looking so upset.

     Did he even enter the house? Next thing he knew he was sitting on the couch, with a blanket around him and a roaring fire... red and orange showing in his otherwise grey surroundings. His mother was beside him, trying desperately to get him to drink from the glass of water they provided. She had tears in her eyes, trying so hard to get him to respond to anything she was saying. At long last he parted his lips, and drank. Small, little sips until the glass was eventually gone.

"Where did you go Hershel? Why were you gone so long? What happened?"

      Hershel's eyes slowly drifted up to meet hers, and mouth would only cooperate long enough to hoarsely get out the word;

"Akbadain..."

      Lucille took a moment to try and grasp that word. Had she even heard it before? She didn't think so... she wiped a damp cloth along his forehead, dipping it in a bowl of cool water to dab it on his face again. It was purple, a spark of purple. As purple as Randall's blazer. His face contorted, his eyes welling up again. Lucille gasped and pulled the cloth back, taking his hand immediately

"What is Akbadain?"

      His breath sped up, and tears began to flow down his cheeks. He looks down, trying to avoid eye contact

"Ruins... Randall wanted to go..."

      Lucille moves closer, and touches his shoulder softly, trying to get eye contact back. Hershel never responded like this to their silly little excavations. Something must have happened, but what could have?

"Did something happen?"

      Hershel's expression goes numb, and his tears pick up intensity. Slowly his head lowers into his hands, and his body begins to tremble and convulse with racking sobs.

"I killed Randall..!"

      Roland and Lucille exchange worried glances, before returning to Hershel's side quickly. Lucille hugs him close, and Roland rubs his back softly.

"What? Of course you didn't... he's just mad, I'm sure."

      This was met with more powerful sobbing, heaving breaths and screamed out cries. This wasn't normal, not for Hershel. He was a bit of a crybaby, but it was never like this, it's never been like this. No matter what Hershel went through he never cried like this. He mostly silently kept to himself, and hid away in his room for a while, and occasionally come out if he smelled freshly brewing earl grey tea or cherry cake.

"N-no-- I... the ruins... he..."

      Hershel was trying to gather himself, and Lucille grabbed his hand softly, soothingly shushing him to try and coerce him to steady his breathing before he continued talking. Hershel looked at her with tears streaming down his cheeks, and off his chin onto his lap. He tried to take a few breaths, to no success;

"We... the final chamber... big pond, stepping stones... we started crossing but... but it was a trap and... and everything started sinking...!"

      He pulls his hand back to frantically wipe at his eyes, as well as hide them from view. He took a few gasping sobs, and buried his head in his hands fully

"I made the jump... he didn't... I couldn't pull him up-- I dropped him-- I dropped him and he fell and he may still be falling! And it's all my fault!"

      Within moments he's broken into incoherent sobs, crying out for Randall with each shaky breath he took. Lucille lurched towards him, taking him tightly in her arms and rubbing his back softly. This couldn't be true, could it? Randall was like a son to them both, and meant the world to Hershel. And just like that, he was gone?

"Oh Hershel..."

      His whole world was falling apart. He felt like nothing even mattered anymore. Who would he talk to? Who would he solve puzzles with? Who would he talk to before class? Or share his lunch with? Who would he fence with? Who would drag him across town for bottle caps and arrowheads? He had no one any longer. It's not as though he had other friends, like that even mattered anymore.

      Randall was everything to him, even if he had other people, not having Randall would still break him the same way. There would be no one in Stansbury that would ever be the same again. Randall, the entire Ascot family, they were so important in this town. Lord Ascot ran numerous events, Randall's mother, Lily, baked for the town in her spare time, for birthdays, or if she noticed someone had a bad day. Randall himself always had a chipper smile and a positive attitude, even if life had chewed him up and spit him back out. He never failed to make someone smile.

           And no one would ever see his smile again.

           Hershel only had himself to blame for that.

      He wasn't sure how much time had passed before his crying had stopped, but Lucille looked exhausted, so he'd assume it was late. Really, he should let the two of them sleep. They've tried so hard today to help him. With a small sniffle, he looks at his precious mother and touches her shoulder softly

"Please Ma, get some sleep."

      Within moments there was a gentle handkerchief brushing tear tracks off his face. She looked so worried about him. It was clear she wasn't exactly willing to leave him if he was upset.

"I promise you can get some rest. I'm going to run a bath and try to wash some of this dirt out..."

      Lucille stood, giving Hershel a solemn smile. Her voice was always soft and soothing, no matter the situation;

"I'll draw you a bath, there should be pyjamas on your bed."

      Hershel gives her a gentle hug before returning to his room. His pyjamas were laid so nicely on his bed, they looked grey, lined with purple that poked through with the collar. He could identify them as his favourite pyjamas, which were normally a soft blue with a harsh purple collar. His mother knew him too well.

      There was a single full-length mirror in his room, which allowed him to get a good look at himself in the dim light of his bedroom. He was a wreck; his clothes were tattered, his hair was matted with everything from sand to twigs and rocks lodged in it, he was covered with cuts, swollen bumps scattered from head to toe. He was coated in dirt and sand, and there were horrible bags under his eyes. He could see the red from any open wounds... the red stood out, being present only on his cuts and his vest.

      It dawned on him, there was an ongoing theme... his vest, the cuts, the purple in the pyjamas, the orange in the fire... it seemed the colours he could still see were based on Randall himself. Between his hair, his ascot, and his favourite colour. 

      His mind couldn't stray from his fallen friend, the one who died because of him. His expression fell once again, and his feet dragged along the ground as he moved from his room to the upstairs washroom. His mother was just leaving the room, and gives him a small kiss on the cheek when their paths cross

"It's all ready for you, Hershel. Please, call me if you need anything."

"Thank you Ma, I appreciate it."

      He brushed her shoulder with his hand on his way into the washroom, and sighed a little once he was alone again. He stripped his clothing down, and slipped slowly into the tub. Honestly, the heat helped him quite a bit, relaxing his tensed muscles, and, unfortunately stinging his wounds. By the time he was submerged properly, the water was already murky. He really was filthy from his trips to and from the ruins, wasn't he?

      His head dipped under to soak his hair, and tried running fingers through it, and managed to get out a bit of the debris that had stuck into the curls. Lifting his head out, the water came off him a thick black, further tainting the water. It wasn't even clear enough to aid in cleaning himself. He sat in the heat for a few moments longer, before draining the tub so he could fill it with clean water once again.

      At least when the water hit him this time around, it stayed mostly clear. He could finally relax into the water. It gave him time to think, and realize how much he regretted everything. If he had turned back and gone to Stansbury, Randall likely would have made it across the platforms, he would have gotten the treasure, and he would still be alive.

           If he had just asked Randall to turn back, he would still be here.

      The water had gone cold by the time he came to, causing the small teenager to shiver. He quickly worked to wash himself before hopping out and draining the now murky water again. He looked up in the mirror at his drenched hair, now clean skin... and his washed out cuts.

      But when had he started crying again? It must have been while he was lost in thought. His mind was wandering to dangerous places, overwhelming his head to the point he hurt. Surges of pain rushed from his head down his spine, and he started sobbing over the sink again. The gravity of it all really started to sink in;

           He wanted to join Randall.

      However, he wanted to suffer, as well... to put himself through the same pain he put Randall through. He started digging out and around drawers, until he came across his fathers straight razor. He flipped it so he could expose the blade, and swallowed hard. He was really going to do this wasn't he? His eyes shut, he steadied his breath...

           And made the first slash across his wrist.

      He cried out, clamping his trembling hand over his mouth. Tears bit at the corners of his eyes and rushed down his cheeks. His hands shook, blood slowly dripped down his arm, and he tried his best not to make any more noise. If he hadn't just woken up his parents, he had to make sure to keep them asleep.

      Once he could steady himself, his hand lowered back over the sink, and he stared at the crimson trickle that had travelled down his arm, leaving a streak of dark colour in its tracks. The hand with the razor steadied itself again, and left another slash across his wrist again. He managed to keep himself from shaking too badly, and one by one...

      He started leaving the marks up his forearms... and along the other. He was trembling, crying, streaks of red trailing down his arms, dripping into the sink and on the counter, adding splashes of colour to the dull room. He hiccuped pitifully, as he held the razor to his neck, making a few small cuts before preparing for the final slash.

"Hershel!!"

      His eyes darted towards the door, to see a very scared set of parents. Lucille approached quickly, slapping the razor from his hands and firmly gripping on his shoulders. She looks terrified, tears welling up in her normally soft-toned eyes. Hershel couldn't look at her, and instead glanced to the side, towards the blood-stained counter top.

"Why!? Why did you-- why!?"

      He winced at her tone. That was a voice of a desperate lady, someone bogged with fear and desperation. She was shaking, staring at his wrists and neck in horror. Her son, her only son, is hurting himself like this. Tears dripped off her chin rapidly. She hardly even noticed her own fatigue anymore, she quickly grabbed a cloth and some antibiotic ointment she held around.

      She dampened the cloth with cool water, and started blotting his wounds, trying to at least get some of this blood away before trying to treat it. His arm soon went dull once again, with small hints of a crimson red peeking through. Another cloth was quickly grabbed, drying off the arm as well as she could with her trembling hands.

      It was once Hershel saw her squeeze some of the ointment onto her hands that he tried to stumble back, only to be held in place by a very worried father. Roland's eyes weighed heavy with guilt and worry. It's almost like the two of them were blaming themselves for Hershel's actions, and Hershel was focused on Roland's face for a few moments too long.

      He cried out loudly, pain shooting up his arm as the ointment came in contact with his cuts. Lucille didn't stop, she kept a tight grip on his hand, moving up the arm slowly with no breaks or hesitation. Hershel grunted, screamed, barely being held in place. His mother had quite the grip on his wrist, and his father was firmly holding him in place.

      One arm was done, and was burning, the stinging was horrible. He felt light-headed, and before he knew it, the other arm was being blotted with the first damp cloth, and dried with the second. He was crying again, wasn't he? His face felt hot and wet, he must have been.

"Ma please... st-stop--"

      She didn't respond, but her face scrunched up, trying to prevent more tears from coming. She started applying the ointment on the second arm, a little slower this time, but she wasn't sure if that was making it better or worse, Hershel's desperate, pained screaming made it hard to tell. But before long, it was done, and before moving on to the neck, she grabbed a roll of gauze, wrapping his forearms in the white fabric.

      Lucille always was the worry-wart mother, she just hoped it would never have come in handy. Once his arms were wrapped, she took a moment to grab both of his hands softly, shaky fingers entwining with his. She knew she'd have to treat his neck, too, but she was afraid, afraid of what Hershel was doing, afraid of what he could do.

           She didn't want to lose him.

      Hershel hadn't even considered how his parents would feel if he was gone. They just lost Randall, and they were torn to pieces over it, he couldn't imagine how it would feel to lose him too. But his thoughts wouldn't go away.

"Roland, dear, can you please go into Hershel's room for me?"

      There was no further communication needed, Roland knew exactly what he needed to do, and quickly took his leave, patting Hershel's shoulder on the way out. Lucille grabbed the cloth again, blotting the cuts on his neck slowly, and drying it. There was just a little more to go. She waited, noticing Hershel squeeze his eyes shut. He looked so scared, and as much as that broke her heart, his injuries shattered it.

      She started applying it to his neck, and heard him whimper out, she kept a hand behind his back, trying to give him a partial hug while she treated the few small cuts on his neck. He gasped hard, tensing his hands, but it was over almost as soon as it started, with it only being a few minor slices.

      Once it was treated and wrapped, she locked her arms around him. She was shaking like a leaf, trying so hard not to cry again. Hershel's eyes fell partway shut, he couldn't return the hug with the sting in his arms, but he leaned against her. How did he earn a mother as wonderful as she was? Despite his selfishness, she stood by him.

      Roland returned to the room after a small while, and gave Lucille a small nod. She allowed Hershel to put on the shirt of his pyjamas, and lead him off towards his bedroom. It was weird, it had a lot of stuff taken out of it... but why?

      It didn't take long to click, Lucille had sent Roland to remove anything that Hershel could harm himself with... he lost their trust. He's completely shattered their belief in him, and that cut deep. How could he allow this to happen? He should have quit while he was ahead...

"I... mm.. goodnight, Ma..."

      Hershel settled down in bed, and his parents shut the light off. Once the door was shut and the footsteps stopped, he reached under his pillow, hoping Roland didn't find them. He gasped when he felt the plastic frames, and pulled Randall's glasses out.

      If Roland had found them, maybe he deemed they'd be a coping mechanism, or that Hershel couldn't hurt himself with them, but he sat them on the section of bed illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window. He began to tear up again, dissolving into silent sobs within a few moments, and curling in on himself in his bed.

      He wasn't even sure how he still had tears to shed. He had cried so much since his fall, but he still couldn't stop the tears from coming. He looked to his window, it was late, surely Randall would come in the window any moment now, right?

      There it was, the moment he was waiting for, when he saw the redhead climb up and tap on his window. Hershel gasped, jolting out of bed and opening it up. Randall gave him a big smile, and climbed in. He was covered in dirt and grime, and his glasses were cracked, not that he actually needed them.

"Hersh! I'm glad you made it home!"

      There was a tight hug that caused the ginger boy to gasp, quickly chuckling and returning the embrace. He was rough and covered in bruises similar to Hershel's. There was a moment of shock when Randall felt hot tears soaking through his dirty shirt.

"Come on now, you didn't think a little fall would do anything to me, did you?"

"I-- I-- I didn't know what to think! It looked so far! Randall I-- I'm so sorry I couldn't--"

      He was quickly shushed, Randall's hand was in his afro and he was pressed more firmly against his shirt. Hershel responded to this by taking handfuls of Randall's shirt in his hand, and pressing against him, trying to make sure he was really here, that it was really him.

      There was no relief in the world like this, there he was, completely okay. Hershel finally managed to compose himself, pulling back and smiling brightly at Randall. Everything felt right again, everything was going to be alright.

           If he hadn't startled awake moments later.

      There was still moonlight coming in through the window, the glasses were still on his bed. Randall was still gone, Hershel was still alone. He whimpered, and started tearing up again. Everything's still dull, nothing had purpose any longer. His mind snapped back to thoughts of suicide.

      He wasn't thinking clearly any longer. He didn't want to keep going anymore. He started rummaging though his room for something, for anything. He dug into a closet, and found an old bag from an expedition he and Randall had gone on years ago. Roland has mostly raided it...

           All that was left was some bandages, water, rope, a change of clothes, and an epipen for Randall.

      He stops for a moment, and eventually grabs the rope. Randall had taught him quite a bit about knot tying behind Lucille and Roland's back...

           Including how to tie a noose.

      Hershel worked with shaky hands, this was really going to happen, wasn't it? He was really going to do this...

      Tears streamed down his cheeks again, his heart was racing, and his hands were shaking so badly he barely managed to tie the knot. He looked up, almost pleadingly begging a parent to get worried about him and come check on him. If someone came to rescue him, he'd stop this altogether, he wouldn't try it anymore.

           He'd know someone really wanted him to live.

      He got the chair from his desk, and tied the noose to a support beam at the top of his room. He was sure it would be able to take his weight. It took him so long, staring at the rope in the ceiling, tears falling rapidly and his heart just pounding in his chest. He wanted anyone to come in right now, he didn't even care who it was, he just wanted someone to stop him.

      Moments turned to minutes, before he finally settled the noose around his neck, and closed his eyes tightly. This was it, this was the end of his life. With one swift motion, he kicks his chair out from underneath it, hearing it clatter against the wall behind him in time with the pain around his neck shooting down his spine. He wasn't able to breathe, he looked so scared, it hurt so badly. Everything hurt...

      And greys were fading to black. His eyes widened, he realized this was it. Not being able to breathe was a pain he didn't think he'd ever experience...

      He heard the door slam open just as the last of his life left his body, and heard a woman's shrill voice screaming his name. If she had only been moments sooner.


End file.
